


Bless Me, Father

by Ellidfics



Series: Captain Fraudulent:  The Outtakes [46]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Catholicism, Confession, Gen, Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2019-06-11 22:39:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15325962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellidfics/pseuds/Ellidfics
Summary: “ - and then he walked out!”  Father Vozella, anxious and angry, threw up his hands.  “I can't imagine why, all I did was ask him to speak to the youth group, it's not an unreasonable request!”Father Rivera paused in the act of pouring himself a cup of coffee.  Father Vozella was notorious for sucking up to minor celebrities, most of whom were happy to get the attention.  “Who's 'he'?“





	1. St. Brigid's Roman Catholic Church, March 30th, 2012

“ - and then he walked out!” Father Vozella, anxious and angry, threw up his hands. “I can't imagine why, all I did was ask him to speak to the youth group, it's not an unreasonable request!”

Father Rivera paused in the act of pouring himself a cup of coffee. Father Vozella was notorious for sucking up to minor celebrities, most of whom were happy to get the attention. “Who's 'he'?“

“There, there.” Mrs. Vargas patted Father Vozella's hand. “I'm sure he'll come around.”

“You wouldn't say that if you'd seen the look on his face,” said Father Vozella. “I have to wonder if being away so long affected his mind, everyone knows he was a good Catholic before the war.”

“What war?” Father Rivera added sugar and took his place at the rectory table. Mrs. Vargas had brewed a fresh pot of coffee and baked a plate of cookies for her priests, and after basketball practice he wasn't about to say no. “Iraq damaged many men, including some of ours. Patience and time work miracles.”

Father Vozella shook his head. “I shouldn't tell you. I shouldn't have told Mrs. Vargas, but she was right there when the men from the government arrived with the non-disclosure agreement so I couldn't precisely send her - “

“Non-disclosure agreement?” Father Rivera paused, coffee halfway to his lips. “Men from the government? I thought we were offering sanctuary - ”

“No, not that,” Mrs. Vargas interjected. She nudged the plate of cookies in Father Rivera's direction. “Tell him, Father. He'll need to know if – when – your visitor returns.”

Father Vozella ran his hand back over what was left of his hair, then shoved a form across the table. He wasn't young, but he was hard working and conscientious, which counted for much. “Here. Read for yourself.”

His coffee had cooled enough to drink by the time Father Rivera had finished reading the paperwork the first time, and it was lukewarm after the second read-through. “This isn't a joke?” he said at last. 

“No joke,” said Father Vozella. “I didn't believe it until I met him, but if you'd been there - “

“His eyes and smile, they are the same,” said Mrs. Vargas. She refreshed Father Rivera's coffee after he took a gulp. “My father belonged to the _Centinelas de la Libertad_ when he was a boy and he brought the poster to New York when he moved here from San Juan. It's the same man.”

Footsteps thundered past as one of the CCD groups pelted down the corridor toward the exit. Father Vozella made a face. “All I did was ask him to talk to the youth group after confession! They have so many questions and I thought - “

Father Rivera stared. “Dennis. If this is true - “

“Oh, believe me, it is.”

“ - he's been conscious for less than a month. What could he possibly say to the youth group that would make sense to them?” 

Father Vozella worried at his lower lip, always a sign that he had been caught pushing the Sodality of Our Lady or another pet cause. “I thought – well. He's from a time when faith was strong and protecting innocent life was a priority. I thought he could remind our youngsters of that. I didn't expect him to say something about his mother 'helping' girls in trouble! What kind of Catholic says that?”

Mrs. Vargas made a sympathetic sound and handed Father Vozella a cookie. Father Rivera drank his tepid coffee and let his colleague rant. He'd grown up in a different time and a different place, and his ministry reflected that. 

“Maybe he needs a bit more time to adjust,” he said at last. He wasn't quite ready to accept this at face value – Captain America back from the dead? Really? - but then again Father Vozella had no reason to lie. “Perhaps next time?”

“If there _is_ a next time,” said Father Vozella, looking miserable, and Mrs. Vargas slipped him another cookie.


	2. Bryant Park, May 16th, 2012

Father Rivera accepted a steaming cup of coffee from a Red Cross worker and murmured his thanks. It was still hard to believe that it had been less than two days since aliens had swept down from the sky to attack New York, but he'd seen the footage and talked to enough first responders to know that what had happened near Grand Central was no hoax. 

Now he and every other priest the archdiocese could spare had joined the relief efforts, serving coffee and hot meals, visiting the injured, comforting the grieving. His team was based across from the main branch of the Public Library, as close to the disaster zone as they could get without disrupting the salvage work Damage Control and Toomes & Company were doing, and Father Rivera had watched as photo after photo had gone up on trees and fences, first responder after dust-covered first responder gulp down a hot drink or devour a sandwich before staggering back to work. 

“It's not as bad as 9/11,” said an EMT earlier that day when Father Rivera had asked her if she needed to sit down for a few minutes. She was middle aged, with strong hands and weary eyes. “I'll be okay.”

“I'm sure you will,” he'd replied, then handed her a sandwich and a can of soda from the massive order donated by the Maria Stark Foundation and Katz's Deli. “Rest will help.”

She managed a shaky smile, took a few sips of her drink, and returned to work.

More EMT's, more police officers, more volunteers came and went as the hours passed. Father Rivera was eventually relieved by the student minister from the Community Church over in Murray Hill, who handed _him_ a can of soda, an extra bottle of water, a sandwich, and told him to take five, that she had this and he could rest.

“No, no. I'm fine,” he said, trying not to yawn. “I've only been here - “

“Since seven this morning, which was eight hours ago,” she said, taking him by the arm and steering him around the corner toward the main entrance to the Public Library. “Isn't there something in Scripture about not muzzling an ox while it treads the grain? There's a space over by Fortitude. Go sit down, Father. I've got this.”

“Deuteronomy 25:4? I'm surprised they still teach that in seminary.” It was something of a shock to realize how tired he was, or how shaky his voice sounded. “Let me know if you need - “

She pointed at the sandwich. “Eat. Drink. Rest. Like I said, I've got this.”

He managed a shaky smile and an even shakier blessing before dropping down next to great stone lion called Fortitude. “Bless you, my child.”

"You too, Father."

The sandwich wasn't bad – slightly bland tuna salad from a commercial chain, the Katz's order must have run out at last – and he'd almost finished when someone dropped heavily down next to him with the faint, surprisingly resonant _clank_ of something metallic striking the granite steps. There was a weary sigh with the faintest touch of despair underlying it, and Father Rivera hastily swallowed his last bite before turning toward the sound.

“Are you all right, my - “ he began, then stopped when he saw the look on the newcomer's face. Without thinking he handed the other man his untouched water. “Here. You need this more than I do.”

“Thanks.” The man blinked, hesitantly unscrewed the top, and drank until the bottle was empty. He wiped his mouth and softly exhaled. “Guess I needed that.”

Father Rivera reclaimed the bottle and crushed it for recycling. “They have more in Bryant Park if you're still thirsty. Food, too.”

“I'll be fine.” The man's brows knotted as he noticed the clerical collar. He was younger than he sounded, with light brown hair bleached gold by the sun and very blue eyes. “Sorry, Father. I didn't - “

“Don't worry about it. We're all here to help,” said Father Rivera. He handed the man the small bag of Cape Cod Potato Chips that had come with his sandwich. “Here. I wasn't going to eat these.”

The man took a deep breath. “I can't - “

“Then we can share,” said Father Rivera. He opened the bag, selected a chip, and held it out. “I hope you like mesquite barbecue.”

“I don't even know what that is,” said the man. He took a shuddering breath and scrubbed at his dusty forelock, then opened a flap at the neckline of his sleek blue uniform. “There's so much I don't know,” he said, voice rough from overuse, and that was when Father Rivera finally, _finally_ realized who had joined him on the library steps.

“It's a wood from the Southwest,” Father Rivera said when he was sure he could keep his voice steady. “You add it to a wood barbecue for flavor.”

Captain America - _Captain America, Father Vozella had been right, it really was the same man, Dios mío **how**_ \- cautiously accepted a potato chip and took a taste. “Not bad,” he said, then ate a second, and a third. Soon he'd finished the bag while Father Rivera watched. “A little spicy but still good.”

Father Rivera handed over what was left of his soda without being asked. “Here. I'm not going to finish this and it shouldn't go to waste.”

Captain America blinked, then drained the can in one swallow. His hands were trembling slightly. “Thanks. I – you didn't need to do that, Padre.” 

“I'm here to minister to everyone, Captain,” Father Rivera said, and yes, the brief flash of pain in the clear blue eyes was not his imagination. “That includes the helpers as well as those seeking help. Did you need a sandwich? I can get one for you - “

“I'll be okay. Red Cross is bringing in more food soon.” The long hands clenched into fists, then opened with what looked like conscious effort as Captain America looked across the street at the facade of the Orvis. “Lot's changed since the last time I was here.”

Father Rivera watched as yet more volunteers trudged past on their way to Bryant Park. What could one possibly say to that? “New York never does stand still, does it?”

The other man made a snort that might have been intended as a laugh. “Never did, even when I was a kid. All the skyscrapers - “ He gestured vaguely in the direction of Midtown.

“They built those when I was a kid. The Chrysler Building, Empire State, Rockefeller Center. The tallest buildings in the world, and they were right here.” Captain America took a deep breath. He held it on a four count, then breathed out. “Now they aren't even the tallest in New York. I shouldn't be surprised things changed while I was away, but - ”

“You're not the first soldier who's told me that,” said Father Rivera. “One of our deacons served in Afghanistan as a chaplain. He said exactly the same thing after his last deployment.”

“So it's not just me." Captain America breathed in again, held, then breathed out. ““Father. I – I know this isn't the place or maybe the time – but – there's something I need to get off my chest. I – if you would – I - ” 

“Of course. That's why I'm here.” Father Rivera glanced about him to make sure that there was no one nearby. Even Captain America deserved his privacy. “What is your name, my son?”

The other man ducked his head. “My name is Steven. Steve.”

“Steven.” Father Rivera didn't have his stole with him, but it wasn't as if he hadn't heard an impromptu confession before. He leaned forward until he was close enough to feel the other man's warm, shuddering breath to preserve as much of Steven's privacy as possible. “What troubles you, my son?”

Steven bowed his head, then swiftly crossed himself and murmured a prayer in what sounded like pre-Vatican II Latin before switching to English. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I committed the sin of anger and - “

It took longer than it should have, between Father Rivera straining to hear over the crowd and the traffic and Steven having to shake his head when at least one fan approached him for an autograph. But the whole story – the anguish at waking to find his world was irretrievably lost, the anger boiling below the surface at how he'd been treated as a weapon, not a man, lashing out at his old friend's child and nearly driving him to pay the ultimate price – it was clear that the great hero was on the verge of buckling whether the public knew it or not.

“I told him he fought only for himself. Called him selfish. Then he flew that missile straight into the sky and - “ Steven swallowed, hard enough that Father Rivera automatically handed him a wad of slightly greasy paper napkins to dab at his eyes. “All I could think was 'Howard, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.' That's his only son and I – I goaded him and - “

It sounded like a bad novel, an alien wielding a scepter that influenced the mind, but Father Rivera had seen the results with his own eyes. “It sounds as if Mr. Stark would have offered himself whether you were angry with him or not. Ultimately it was his choice to make.”

The hand holding the paper napkins clenched hard enough that the bright gauntlet visibly tightened over Stevens' knuckles. “Choice. I know all about _that_.”

“Then you know that he was aware of what he was doing,” said Father Rivera. He grasped the other man's hand, unconsciously massaging until the spasm relaxed with a faint creak of leather. “Your mind was clouded when you spoke. You can't blame yourself for that. The Lord certainly won't.”

Steven shook his head. “It's not like that, Father. I did the same thing with someone else once. Back – back before.”

A pigeon fluttered past, then another. Father Rivera waved off an elderly woman with a bag of breadcrumbs who had wandered up to feed the birds even as the relief efforts continued. “Go on.”

“My friend – I teased him. My friend Bucky.” 

Father Rivera tensed at the agony in the words. Even he had heard of Sergeant Barnes' great sacrifice. 

“I took him on a mission that didn't need a sniper. He - " Steven choked, ducked his head. “He didn't make it. Everyone told me it wasn't my fault, but it was. It was payback for something he'd done when we were kids and I thought it was funny, then he - he fell and - “

That was when he broke, head bent, great shoulders shaking as he yielded to his grief. Father Rivera murmured what he hoped was comfort until the moment passed, never loosening his grip on those strong, callused hands. Fortunately no one bothered them, or even seemed to notice among all the other volunteers taking a break or mourners crying for their loved ones. There were so many, after all.

Eventually Steven calmed enough that Father Rivera was able to murmur the words of absolution – anger was indeed a sin, as justifiable as it might be in some circumstances – and assigned enough of a penance to avoid looking like he was playing favorites. “Be at peace, my son. We all speak in anger from time to time. God will understand.”

“That's what the last padre I spoke to said.” Steven crossed himself. He was far too pale, but his eyes were clear and his voice steady again. “Guess I should pay attention this time, right?”

“Like I said, God will understand.” Father Rivera pulled out one of his cards, crossed out St. Brigid's address, and wrote the name of his new parish on the back. “I'm scheduled to move to a new church in a few weeks. Give me a call if you need to talk.”

“Thanks, I - “

“Captain? Captain America?” A slender, elegantly dressed woman with a microphone in her hand called up from the bottom of the stairs. “I'm with the _Amsterdam News_. Did you have a moment to talk?”

Steve tucked Father Rivera's card into his belt with a little nod. "Sorry, Padre. Looks like I'm back on duty." He squared his shoulders, stood, and turned to the reporter, assuming the mantle of Captain America as effortlessly as another man might take a deep breath. 

“Of course. Let's find a quiet place to talk and - “

Father River quietly gathered up the remains of their meal and headed for the nearest trash can as Captain America gave an interview that would inspire its readers without the slightest hint of the turmoil behind the legend. 

“May you find peace, my child," he murmured, then squared his own shoulders and headed back into Bryan Park. It was time to go back to work.


	3. Park Slope, July 1st, 2012

It was a hot, humid Sunday morning in July, sticky enough that Father Rivera had skipped his morning run and come straight to his new church. It was an older building but had been updated enough that the sacristry was blessedly cool and dry. His summer weight vestments were already laid out and waiting for him, and he murmured an extra prayer of gratitude for an efficient Altar Guild as he prepared for early Mass.

“Father?”

“Yes?” The church secretary (young, pretty, and quietly living with her college roommate in a relationship that almost certainly not platonic, not that it was any of Father Rivera's business) poked her head into the sacristy. “Is something wrong?”

“No, it's just - “ She glanced over her shoulder and shut the door. “We have a visitor I think you should know about.”

Father Rivera paused in the middle of adjusting the flowing sleeves of his chasuble. “Is it His Eminence? Monsignor Shellenbarger? That actor - “

“I - “ The secretary pulled out her phone and swiped to an image of a tall, well built man in a dark suit that looked nearly new. His hair, short and golden from sun exposure, was visibly damp from a recent shower. “I think it's Captain America.”

The air conditioner hissed softly as Father Rivera peered more closely at the image. It was definitely the man he'd met right after the Chitauri attack. “I see. Did he say anything when he came in?”

“Not really. He asked for a program and sat down near the back.” The secretary swiped to another photograph. “He looked a little bewildered, actually.”

Father Rivera thought back to soft prayers in Latin, the anguish of a man out of his time by half a century. “Ask him if he'd like one of the older missals from my office, the pre-Vatican II ones. I'll be available after the service if he’d like to talk.”

The secretary nodded quickly and ducked out again. Father Rivera murmured a prayer for his newest congregant and waited for the altar servers to tumble into the room, white surplices already wrinkled, and line up for the processional. He would have to speak to them about the church meaning of “Ordinary Time,” but that could wait until CCD class later in the week. Right now it was time for Mass.

The service was better attended than the usual summer Sunday, even allowing for the Allegretti twins' baptism. Part of it may have been the air conditioning or curiosity over a new priest, but several newcomers had told him after last week's services that seeing aliens pour out of the sky had shaken them enough to send them back to the church.

Steven was sitting near the back of the church when the procession began, two service books open on the pew next to him. One or two children seemed to have recognized him, but adults either hadn't or were to too polite to react to having a celebrity visit their church. Father Rivera nodded as he passed, and was pleased to see Steven smile slightly in response. His eyes were clear, his back straight, and there was no trace of the desperate, anguished man he'd comforted back in May.

The service went well, even if the younger Allegretti twin objected so strongly to getting wet that she nearly twisted out of her mother's arms straight into the font. Steven must have gone to confession earlier, either here or in the city, because he was one of the faithful who came to receive communion. There was something vaguely old fashioned about the way he knelt at the altar rail and crossed himself, but he had followed the service, knelt and stood at the appropriate times, and listened attentively to the homily so he'd clearly done his best to adapt. 

After the service Father Rivera took a few moments to shed his vestments before joining the congregation in the social hall for coffee – air conditioning could only do so much in this heat, especially with something as heavy as a synthetic blend cope draped over the rest of his clothing – and was pleased to see Steven chatting easily with a few members of the youth group. He was still in his suit, but he'd loosened his tie and had accepted a cup of the oddly refreshing punch someone had made of fruit juice and off-brand ginger ale.

Father Rivera ladled himself a cup of punch and drifted over to the little group. They were discussing the after-school basketball program, and he took a moment to listen as Steven and the current team manager swapped stories about managing boys a head taller during road games. “Then the center actually patted me on the head and called me a good girl - “

“That’s some nerve. What'd you say?”

“Nothing I can repeat in front of Father, but he never did it again,” said the manager, giving Father Rivera a sidelong glance. She was short, yes, but she was so organized her classmates had voted her “Most Likely to Rule the World,” and meant it. “Coach benched him the next game, too.”

“Sounds like he deserved it.” Steven chuckled, then nodded to Father Rivera and held out his hand. “Father. Good to see you.”

“I could say the same.” Father Rivera waited for the teens to melt back into the crowd. “How have you been?”

“Not bad.” Steve gave Father Rivera a wry smile. “Guess you heard about me getting mobbed a couple weeks back.”

“It was hard to avoid.” Father Rivera had been sitting up with a cancer patient and hadn't actually witnessed the media swarm up the block, but he'd heard plenty from the church secretary. The media frenzy had disturbed him enough that later that day he'd walked up the block to the brownstone where Steven was supposed to be living, but all he'd seen was a tinsel-covered motorcycle at the curb and a smashed microphone from the Ones. “You're decided to stay in the neighborhood?”

Steven nodded, expression thoughtful. “I think so. A lot's changed since I was a kid, but Brooklyn is Brooklyn. I'm on a sublet right now but I have an option for the fall. We'll see.”

“You'll be welcome here whether you stay in the neighborhood or not,” said Father Rivera. He glanced over at a well known actress who lived in Gowanus. “You won't be the only famous person in the congregation.”

Steven followed his gaze. “That'd be good. Maybe she can give me some tips about those – what do you call them, flash mobs?”

“Paparazzi,” said Father Rivera. He drew Steven aside, voice dropping automatically even though most of the congregation was cooing over the newly baptized twins (they were adorable, albeit somewhat damp). “If you need to see me privately, I'll clear my schedule.”

“Not right now, but later - “ Steven hesitated. “Maybe next week? It might get – intense – after the 4th. I’m giving an interview to Marlo Donahue that night and, well - “

Father Rivera laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I have a few minutes before the collation for the Allegretti twins. There’s no need to wait so long.”

There was a stir from the other end of the social hall. A middle aged man raised his head and pointed in their direction, and Steven’s jaw clenched. “That might be a good idea, Padre. I don’t want to cause any fuss.”

Father Rivera set down his punch cup and nodded in the direction of the exit. “Shall we? The collation can wait.”

Steven broke into a smile that made it clear why he’d been so popular during the war. “Sounds like a plan. Lead the way.”

“Follow me,” said Father Rivera, and led his newest congregant off to his office before too many of the adults had noticed. “I couldn’t help overhearing you with the basketball team. Perhaps you’d like to work with them? Some of them could use a mentor, and if you have the time – “

“Sure. Maybe they can help straighten me out about sports these days. Still can’t believe the Dodgers moved to California.” Steven sighed. “I know things have changed, but designated hitters? Relievers? A team in _Florida_?”

Father Rivera clapped him companionably on the shoulder. “I can agree about the Dodgers, but we’ll have to disagree about Florida baseball. My father had season tickets to the Marlins as soon as they opened for business and we never missed a game.”

Steven laughed, easy and light. “I can live with that.”


End file.
